


Even Though it All Went Wrong

by plumtrees



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Coping, Depression, Drug Abuse, Established Relationship, Friendship, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Insomnia, M/M, Moving On, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>It hadn’t always been so cold. Matsukawa remembers a time where the sun shone high, its rays bright and its heat pleasant like a blanket against his skin. He remembers Hanamaki holding his hand, remembers his cheeks hurting because he’d been grinning so much. Hanamaki had opened his arms wide, and Matsukawa ran straight for them, like he’d been magnetized. He picked up Hanamaki easily and twirled them around, danced with him until they both tumbled along the grass, laughing like idiots.</p>
  <p>He remembers because it’s all he can do now.<br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Even Though it All Went Wrong

For the first time since he met her, Hanamaki’s grandmother greets him not with a glare but with open arms. He steps into her embrace and pats her back twice before pulling away. She’s always been such a strong woman but she looks so frail now, so much like the 92 year old that she is and not the person who raised Hanamaki since he was 8 years old.

Hanamaki had always said that her abrasiveness towards him was never because she disliked him as a person, but because he’s his boyfriend. He holds no grudges. He understands what it’s like to be protective of Hanamaki.

He crosses a sea of black-clad people until he reaches the front row. As soon as they see him, Oikawa runs up and pulls him into a hug, tight and comforting. His warmth is almost enough to chase away the chill that settled over him since this all started.

But he knows that he will never be warm again.

-

It hadn’t always been so cold. Matsukawa remembers a time where the sun shone high, its rays bright and its heat pleasant like a blanket against his skin. He remembers Hanamaki holding his hand, remembers his cheeks hurting because he’d been grinning so much. Hanamaki had opened his arms wide, and Matsukawa ran straight for them, like he’d been magnetized. He picked up Hanamaki easily and twirled them around, danced with him until they both tumbled along the grass, laughing like idiots.

He remembers because it’s all he can do now.

-

He comes back to the apartment after nearly a month of not even stepping a foot in it. He takes slow, careful steps. The floor is cold. So cold it permeates through his socks. It feels like he’s walking on ice.

He stops in front of the section of the living room he and Hanamaki had filled with pictures of them together. They once joked that by the time they were thirty, the entire wall would’ve been filled up. That’s not going to happen now. Those nine years and seven months are all the time they’re ever going to have. He sees his own face staring back at him, smiling and happy with Hanamaki by his side, tucked neatly against him. It’s only been a year since this picture was taken, but it seems like someone else’s life completely.

He picks up the frame and smashes it against the floor.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi open the door just as he smashes a fifth frame and drag him away from the pile of broken glass and crumpled photos. Iwaizumi meticulously picks out shards from his wounds, his voice harsh as he calls him names. Something wet is dripping on his hands. He looks up and wonders if the ceiling is leaking again.

He hears a thud against the doorframe and turns his head to see Oikawa with two of his bags. He sees a shirt peeking out from a zipper that hadn’t been done up properly and Oikawa tells him that he’ll be staying with them for the time being. He just nods, too tired to argue, too tired to care.

When Iwaizumi finally finishes bandaging him up, the two of them wrap him in their arms. He doesn’t pull away even though it feels like he’s suffocating. He knows this is more for them than it is for him. They need to know that they didn’t lose him too, even if he feels like he’s already lost.

When they let go, he catches them looking at each other, locked in a silent conversation, and something burns hot in his chest. It hurts to see them. Seeing them only emphasizes the fact that there’s something missing. Seeing them together makes him feel even more alone. The resentment blinds him for a second, then it drains out of him and he sags, heavy with guilt for being jealous of his best friends’ happiness.

He’s hunched over his bandaged hands and something wet drips on them again. He really should ask the landlord to get that leak looked at.

-

They bring him to their apartment and take turns watching over him. Matsukawa knows he’s intruding, knows that he should suck it up and stop being such a burden, but the weight of his thoughts keep him silent. He’s spent the past few days just curled up in bed, save for the times Oikawa or Iwaizumi drags him out into the dining table to eat. Even then, he moves mechanically, memories of the past year trapping in the mist of his own head, refusing him escape.

His biggest regret, he thinks, is that in those last days he spent with Hanamaki, all he could think of was _I wish we had more time_.

It ate at him, filled every precious second with a fear so strong that he couldn’t even look Hanamaki without feeling like he’s driving toward the edge of a cliff. It translated in the way his hands shook as he hooked the oxygen mask back on him, the way his chest throbbed everytime the heart monitor acted up, as if it was attached to his heart and not Hanamaki’s.

In those nights where Hanamaki slept soundly, he thought of what his life would be like without him. He eerily found himself coming up blank. He’s been with Hanamaki for more than nine years of his life. His future, his plans, everything in his life had begun to revolve around his one, beautiful, amazing person; the person who made him happy, the person he’d imagined spending the rest of his life with.

When Hanamaki’s heart stopped, something in him stopped too; the desire to look forward, the excitement that bubbled when he woke up every morning.

He’s lost it because now the future doesn’t have Hanamaki in it, and it’s not a future he wants to live in.

-

Every night, Matsukawa wakes up with his mouth open wide around a scream, with Hanamaki’s pale face burning behind his eyelids, like his death is a nightmare rather than a memory. The next day, he notices the black shadows underneath Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s eyes too, and stubbornly stays awake to avoid disturbing their sleep. They realize what he’s doing when they see his sunken eyes the next morning and Oikawa scolds him briefly. That night, Iwaizumi enters his room with a pill in his hand, circular and a pale flesh color.

 _To keep you from dreaming,_ he hears through ears that feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. _Take it, it might help._

He notices that Iwaizumi doesn’t bring him the whole bottle, just hands him the one pill and a glass of water. He knows what he’s afraid of, and he’s grateful of the precaution, because he thinks it’s not that far-fetched a possibility.

He tries not to dwell on it too much as he swallows the pill and chases it with a gulp of water. The medicine helps. He doesn’t dream, but he wakes up feeling ill-rested, feeling like he never slept at all.

It takes three weeks for them to finally entrust him to be on his own. They still call him every few hours to check on him, and he makes sure to answer each call. It takes another week for them to drop that ritual completely. Every night, without fail, Iwaizumi brings him the pill, and he takes it and wakes up and smiles at the breakfast table and says _Yeah I slept fine_ while making every effort to not accidentally tip over anything and arouse Oikawa’s suspicion.

Matsukawa tries sleeping in the afternoon, without the help of the pills, just to get a semblance of rest, but it’s a fruitless effort. He closes his eyes but his mind refuses to settle down. He tries shutting off all the lights, drawing the curtains, pressing a pillow over his head. Nothing. At the start of the fourth week, he accepts the pill and closes his eyes, but he blinks awake the next day, feeling nauseous and dizzy, the sunlight from the window causing his head to throb.

He discreetly vomits in the toilet and flushes all the evidence down, stepping out to the sink to wash out his mouth, managing to clear it by the time Iwaizumi rounds the corner.

When Iwaizumi and Oikawa leave the house, he scours their room for the pills. He finds it in the medicine cabinet, stashed alongside pain medication and other relaxants. He recognizes the white capsules for Oikawa’s knee in an orange prescription bottle, the sheets of Valium and Xanax, one other prescription bottle labelled for Oikawa. He takes those too.

Iwaizumi had only allowed him one pill every night, but that didn’t help much. He takes two, then another one for good measure, swallows them down with a gulp of water. He stares at the other pill bottles and doesn’t even read the label as he takes one or two from each bottle, desperate to make the pain go away. He pops some Xanax and Valium until his fingers are too weak and numb to push another one out.

Not even a minute later, all his joints start to feel numb and shaky, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He takes a random bottle and pours more pills out onto his palm with fingers that have lost all sensation. Some have spilled into the sink and his hand is shaking like crazy, so he takes the pills into his mouth before his whole hand goes heavy.

He chokes, coughing and sending pills flying. _What a waste_ he thinks, and tries to focus on swallowing what he can, scrambling for the glass of water but he accidentally knocks it over. He hunches over the sink and some fall out of his mouth, he stares at the mess of white and pale blue in the ceramic bowl and he smiles because it reminds him of their old high school colors. His head feels heavy but he tilts it up and looks in the mirror.

 _I look like shit_ he thinks. He should freshen up, or else Hanamaki will get mad.

 _No, no, Takahiro won't get mad._ he thinks as his arms give out. _He’s not even here anymore._

The whole room is spinning, and he stumbles to the floor. His head hits the wood and his arm is squished underneath him at an uncomfortable angle. He tries to move but he can’t. Eventually, the discomfort fades into nothing. He can’t feel anything anymore. But it’s alright because that means it’s working. Darkness is crawling along the edges of his vision. Nothing hurts. Everything is fine.

He feels his breathing slow down. He closes his eyes and wonders if he’ll see Hanamaki in his dreams.

-

“Hey, you ok?”

Hanamaki nodded despite looking the total opposite of ‘ok’. He was breathing heavily and looking a little pale, and they haven’t even been cycling for more than five minutes.

“That’s what you get for taking a desk job.” Matsukawa teased. There was only so much exercise a software engineer could do in the workplace, after all. But despite his tone, he was worried. Hanamaki had been coughing sporadically over the last couple of weeks and brushed it off as allergies, which persisted even after Matsukawa cleaned the apartment to the point of spotlessness.

Hanamaki spared him a nasty glare, but the effect was severely dampened by the heavy breaths he seemed to be struggling with. “I think I already proved to you last night that I have no problems with stamina.” Hanamaki teased back, when he finally got his breathing under control. “I’m fine.”

Matsukawa smiled, but concern still hung heavily in his chest. They sat back on their bikes and continued on their way, Matsukawa keeping a slow pace for Hanamaki’s sake.

 _Maybe he’s just trying to get used to exercising again._ he thought, glancing occasionally at Hanamaki, who had trailed behind him again. _It_ has _been a long time since we last played volleyball with Iwaizumi and Oikawa. We should schedule a match when they come ba—_

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a crash, and when he looked behind him, Hanamaki was on the ground, sprawled on his side.

-

The doctors ran test after test, and with each one failing to provide a sure diagnosis, Matsukawa felt himself grow even more anxious. Hanamaki never had a history of breathing problems. He’d been an athlete for more than _six years_ , for god's sake.

So what the hell was going on?

-

When the doctor came back, he was holding Hanamaki’s x-ray results, eyes tired behind thick glasses. After the generic pleasantries were exchanged, the questions came one after the other: _Do you smoke? Does anyone in your household smoke? Does your job expose you to any dangerous fumes or volatile chemicals? Does your family have a history of lung disease?_

Hanamaki had shaken his head at all the questions save for the last one. Hanamaki explained that his mother had died from a lung disease. He said something Matsukawa didn’t catch, but the doctor averted his eyes at the mention of it, lips thinning into a severe line. He clipped the x-ray to the lightbox and turned it on.

Matsukawa knew what a normal, healthy person’s lungs were supposed to look like, but the image on that lightbox looked anything but normal and healthy.

The lungs— _Hanamaki’s_ lungs—were cloudy and webbed with thick lines. Beside him, Hanamaki tensed.

“Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.” the doctor said, and Matsukawa had no idea what that meant but the look on the doctor’s and Hanamaki’s faces sent dread coursing through his veins.

Dimly, he heard the doctor explaining the sickness, that there’s a chance that it could be genetic, that it was the most likely cause considering they had lived in the country for most of their lives, and that Hanamaki had never even touched a cigarette, that the only danger his job exposed him to was too many hours spent in front of a computer screen.

With their proximity he could feel the tremors that shook Hanamaki to the core. He reached over and closed around a hand that remained tightly fisted.

“What are my options?” Hanamaki asked, voice oddly steady. The doctor’s gaze faltered slightly and Matsukawa’s heart jackrabbited because that was _never_ a good sign.

“As of right now, there is no sure treatment. A lung transplant would be your best option. Either someone who’s just very recently died, someone in a coma, or a living donor.”

“Can I be the donor?” He was standing before he even knew it, the only indicator was the chair had retreated a few inches from its original spot. His heart was thudding in his chest and not even Hanamaki’s glare could get him to sit back down. The doctor regarded him with little surprise.

“We’ll also need to make sure the donor’s blood and tissues match Hanamaki-san’s, to lessen the chances of him rejecting the organ. I could schedule a blood test for you, Matsukawa-sa—”

“No.” Hanamaki cut off. “No way in hell.”

Matsukawa turned to Hanamaki, panic apparent on his face. “Taka—”

“How long?” Hanamaki cut off again, turning his venomous glare to the doctor.

“On average,” he answered without missing a beat. “three to four years.”

And that’s when all the strength left Matsukawa. He retreated back to his chair and sagged, finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden. It just hit him now, full force, that this was the same illness Hanamaki’s mother _died_ from, that it was terminal, that _Hanamaki_ would die.

He didn’t even realize Hanamaki was shouting words, grabbing his face in his hands and shaking him.

“Three years is enough time to find a donor!” He screamed and turned to the doctor, as if looking for him to back it up. The doctor quickly nodded.

“Especially if you have immediate family who’s willing to donate. More often than not family members show positive for tissue compatibility tests.”

 _But Hanamaki doesn’t have an immediate family._ Matsukawa thought first, then thought of Hanamaki’s mother and what Hanamaki said—years ago, when he asked about his absent parents—how she suffered through three years of the disease and died when a lung donor couldn’t be found.

He thought of Hanamaki’s father, who couldn’t bear the loss of his wife, whose son wasn’t enough to tether him to a world without her.

A sharp crack resounded across the room, and a stinging pain on his right cheek signaled him to the fact that Hanamaki just _slapped_ him.

“Don’t you dare.” he hissed, grip tight around Matsukawa’s collar even as the monitors beside him shrieked in ways that Matsukawa knew was bad. “Don’t you _dare_.”

The doctor was already pushing him back against the bed, restraining him by the time the nurses flooded in, one firmly pushing Matsukawa out into the hallway.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, staring at nothing. One of the nurses was kind enough to come to him with an ice pack, said something about how the swelling was pretty bad. He took it with a soft thanks even though he didn’t really feel any pain, and as he slumped to the floor with an ice pack clenched tight in his hands, he wondered when he’d wake up from this nightmare.

-

“Do you want to go home?” he asked the next morning over hospital-provided breakfast that Hanamaki scrunched his face at. “I asked the doctor if you could. He said that all we’d need are monitors and an oxygen set-up. You don’t need to stay here.”

Hanamaki looked up at him and then to the wires, monitors and tubes that trapped him to the bed.

“I don’t want to ruin our home with this.”

“It won’t be.” Matsukawa quickly answered. “It won’t be home if you’re not there, Takahiro.”

Hanamaki stared, wordless as Matsukawa approached and held him close, a silent apology for the day before. Hanamaki laid a hand on his face and angled him into a kiss, Matsukawa gasping in relief when Hanamaki licked along the seam of his mouth.

He pulled away far sooner than he’s comfortable with, but he could already feel Hanamaki tensing. Seeing Hanamaki so out of breath after a kiss would have thrilled him, now he’s just scared. He moved to prepare the oxygen mask but Hanamaki’s hand was firm on his arm, keeping him in place as he focused on returning his breathing back to normal on his own.

“You’re going to get better.” he said, later, more to himself than to Hanamaki, who peered at him through heavy lids. He kissed his forehead and whispered the words again, over and over like saying it enough times would make it true.

-

He had the deliverymen set up monitors and oxygen tanks at Hanamaki’s nightstand. A nurse taught Matsukawa how to man the monitors and what the different numbers meant, which values to maintain and watch out for. They gave him a clipboard to record his heart rate and oxygen levels and double-checked that he had all the necessary meds.

Finally, they left, and if it weren’t for the new additions to his and Hanamaki’s bed, Matsukawa could almost believe that everything was back to normal.

Hanamaki insisted they make dinner that night, setting up the stove and oven for a full meal, moving slowly and carefully around their small kitchen.

“They didn’t even have a proper dessert.” Hanamaki said as he pulled out baking sheets and the stand mixer. “I mean what kind of dessert is _jello_?”

His voice was still thready and weak, but overall, being back home seemed to breathe life into him. He didn’t seem as pale as he did when he was wrapped up in hospital linens. Matsukawa smiled and continued with dinner preparations, allowing them to fall into the old ritual of making Saturday dinner.

“You’re putting way too much cheese in those burgers.” Hanamaki complained a little later when they’ve made significant headway. True enough, Matsukawa was wrapping a huge wad of cheese with a thin layer of ground meat. He smiled absently as Hanamaki pressed against him and wrapped an arm around his middle.

“Well, sorry I’m a cheese monster. I’ll understand if that’s a deal-breaker.”

“Give yourself _some_ credit.” Hanamaki said, nuzzling at his nape. “You’re tall, so at least you have _that_ going for you.”

He smiled and quickly leaned forward to scoop at some mashed potato with his finger and reached over his shoulder to smear it against Hanamaki’s cheek. He gave an indignant squawk in return and flicked his batter-coated whisk at Matsukawa’s hair.

For the first time in weeks, their home was full of smiles and laughter again, and Matsukawa leaned over to plant a kiss on Hanamaki’s lips.

-

In their preoccupation with Hanamaki’s condition, no one could really blame them for falling out of touch with most people. When things finally calmed down, he spoke to his parents via Skype, Hanamaki to his grandmother in person. He came home after that visit with swollen eyes and simply told him his grandmother had given the hospital authorization to let him in after visiting hours next time before scurrying to their room to presumably pull himself together. Matsukawa hung back at the door, forehead pressed against the wood as Hanamaki sniffled on the other side. Despite the hell Hanamaki’s grandmother had seemed determined to put him through, Matsukawa felt his heart going out to the old lady. She’d lost her daughter to the illness, and was now losing her only grandchild to it too.

When Hanamaki finally stepped out an hour later, already looking much like his usual self, they got down to their next order of business.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi had already been concerned after they missed the third Skype session in a row, and had flooded their LINE with angry and crying emojis. Oikawa had even taken to sending very expensive cross-country texts, one threatening that they’d take the next flight home if neither of them answered within 24 hours. Hanamaki quickly typed up a reply in their LINE that they’d be available to Skype later, which was almost instantly followed by _more_ crying emojis and all-caps variations of _YOU'RE ALIVE._

They went online at 6PM and made the call, wincing slightly when Oikawa and Iwaizumi turn on their webcam to reveal the noontime sun in Moscow.

“Congratulations on your victory against Cuba.” Hanamaki said immediately, as soon as the generic exchange of _Hello, can you hear us? Yeah we can hear you._ were done and over with.

“Thanks.” Iwaizumi said about the same time as Oikawa jumped in with “MATTSUN, MAKKI, OIKAWA-SAN WAS SO WORRIED, YOU HAVE NO IDEA! HOW COULD YOU?”

Predictably, Iwaizumi exploded into a fury. Matsukawa chuckled at the normalcy of it all. When the excitement finally died down, Iwaizumi edged closer to the screen while Oikawa nursed his damaged ego.

“How are you guys?” he asked, peering at both of them. “And why’d you suddenly drop off the grid? Nobody’s heard from you in weeks.”

“Well I had to take some overtime at work, then I got a really bad case of the flu so we were a little busy the past couple of weeks.” Hanamaki said, a lie they’d rehearsed until they were sure Oikawa wouldn’t suspect a thing.

Oikawa jumped in again, earlier fuss seemingly forgotten. “Makki got the flu?! Are you okay?!” he screeched, so loud that his voice crackled into static.

Hanamaki opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly erupted into a fit of coughs. Matsukawa’s hands flew up to support him but he scurried out of reach, hastily gesturing over to the laptop, where Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s concerned faces were angling left and right, as if they could see beyond what Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s webcam allowed.

“Makki?” Oikawa called out. “Makki!”

The concern in his voice was heavy and palpable. Matsukawa knew that he’d heard it too, the crackling, dry quality of his cough, the sound like unfastening a velcro strap.

“Still a little out of it from the flu. Don’t worry.” Matsukawa hurriedly offered as an excuse, rushing back to the front of the camera and trying to keep his face blank as Hanamaki fiddled with the oxygen tank and tried to breathe as quietly as he could. “He’s just getting some water.”

Oikawa and Iwaizumi frowned and glanced at each other, clearly uneasy but unsure about whether or not to press the issue. Matsukawa tried to be more convincing when he gave a reassuring smile.

In the background, he heard someone call out for Oikawa and Iwaizumi and they both looked up. Iwaizumi signed something that vaguely looked like _Yeah, yeah, we’re coming_ to someone off-screen and Oikawa turned his attention back to the camera. “Were gonna be starting practice again soon. Gotta go. Tell Makki to take care, ok? You, Mattsun, take care of him, make sure he gets enough fluids, make sure you guys get enough sleep. Stop those video game nights I know you keep having. As if Makki doesn’t spend enough time in front of a computer screen already.”

“Yes, _mom_.” he mocked, and it was meant to be exasperated but tapered down to impatience when Hanamaki’s breathing showed no sign of improving. Luckily, Oikawa and Iwaizumi dropped the call after a fairly quick series of goodbyes and Matsukawa immediately jumped over to Hanamaki’s side, who was just holding the mask loosely in hands folded on his lap.

“We can’t keep this up.” he whispered, gripping Hanamaki’s heaving shoulders tight as he calmed down. “They have the right to know.”

“When they get back.” Hanamaki said, and his voice shook in a way that had nothing to do with the disease that’s out to kill him. “Please, Issei, _please_.”

Matsukawa took a deep breath and nodded.

-

_On average_

It meant that based on the total number of cases, people _typically_ lived up to 3 or 4 years post-diagnosis. It did not exclude the fact that there have been cases where the person survived for ten, even fifteen years. Some even lived up until their natural death after successful lung transplants.

But it also did not exclude the fact that there have been cases where the life expectancy was much, much less than that. Some highly aggressive cases only gave the person little more than 2 years to live. Some didn’t even have the full year.

They still returned to the hospital every month so that the doctors could run tests to check the amount of damage in his lungs, the rate at which they’re giving out, to make sure there weren’t any added complications, and to make sure there hadn’t been a misdiagnosis. They would ask him to step into a huge box and breathe in and out through a tube, pedal on a stationary bicycle with a mouthpiece on for six minutes, inhale some gas and hold his breath for a couple of seconds. Matsukawa always preferred to stay with Hanamaki during the whole thing, but was often escorted out by the nurses when he got too fussy.

In the third month, Matsukawa noticed that Hanamaki’s breaths came up alarmingly short, each inhale and exhale lasting a measly few seconds. The nurse spared him a concerned glance when she opened Hanamaki’s folder and clipped on the results for that session.

-

“Matsukawa-san, may I have a word?”

Matsukawa looked up from coffee that’s gone cold to see Hanamaki’s doctor standing in front of him, holding out a folder.

“Here are the compiled results for Hanamaki-san’s lung tests.”

He took it and read through the graphs and charts that he couldn’t make heads or tails of, and spent a few seconds pretend-reading before the doctor sat beside him and pointed to a line graph.

“It’s progressing far faster than the average case.” He said and suddenly it made sense. The dots represented the months and Hanamaki’s lung functionality. Each dot was connected by a line, each becoming steeper as they went.

“At this rate,” and here the doctor took a deep breath, and Matsukawa held his. “he might not even last six months.”

Matsukawa’s hand clenched around the papers, threatening to tear into it. “Any news on the donor search?”

“Hanamaki-san doesn’t have any siblings, and his parents are both deceased. His grandmother’s far too old to be a donor. The blood samples of his other willing relatives are currently being processed. I’ll have results within the week.”

“Can I give it a shot?” slipped out before he was even aware of saying it.

The doctor turned to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hanamaki-san’s family already has a high chance of being compatible donors, Matsukawa-san.”

He stood and the coffee cup he’d set on the floor by his feet spilled its contents all over the linoleum tiles. “And what if they aren’t? Won’t it be better to have more options just in case the others aren’t compatible?”

The doctor’s eyes darted towards the room where Hanamaki was currently taking his third test of the day. “Hanamaki-san is highly averse to the idea of you being his donor.”

“He won’t know if you don’t tell him.”

There was a tense silence for only a moment, then the doctor nodded.

“Very well.”

-

As he feared, none of Hanamaki’s family members were suitable. His blood type was O, same with only one of his cousins, but an HLA test proved him to be an incompatible donor.

He had never been a particularly religious man, but he never recalled praying more than he did the moment his blood was extracted. A week later, when the doctor called him to report that his results came back negative, he slammed his fist against their bedroom wall, startling Hanamaki who was watching TV in the living room. He ignored his questions as he stormed out in nothing but his sweats and a shirt, climbed into their car and drove until his mind clouded over completely and he pulled over against the side of an empty street, breathing heavily.

He eyed the green numbers indicating the time and realized he’d been driving nonstop for an hour and a half. He pressed his head against the steering wheel, wanting to scream but suddenly too out of breath.

His phone rung and he ignored it, but it continued persistently and Matsukawa pictured Hanamaki’s concerned face, pictured him pacing across the living room floor, and finally willed himself to dig his hand into his pockets to fish out his phone.

He frowned when, instead of Hanamaki’s name flashing across his screen, it showed an unlisted contact.

-

Hanamaki was worried. Of course he would be. Matsukawa was an idiot for not even considering the possibility that Hanamaki would follow him.

After he drove off, Hanamaki called him, giving up on the fifth failed attempt and instead ran out to get to the station. He stopped at the places he knew Matsukawa liked to go to be alone, and if his eyes had been a little faster, he would have been able to recognize the gray car he just passed. If Matsukawa had just been a little more clear-headed, he would have noticed the pink-haired pedestrian among the crowd that crossed the road in front of him.

The night was colder than usual and Hanamaki had been searching for more than an hour in nothing but a thin cotton shirt, a hoodie, and jeans. He had forgotten to bring his portable oxygen in his haste, but still, he refused to go home, continued on his search even as he felt his chest constrict in a familiar warning.

He had collapsed in the middle of the street. The group of teenagers who found him had enough sense to call an ambulance, and here he was now, confined again in the hospital that was slowly becoming too familiar, in a room that Matsukawa knew he would be spending too many nights in.

When Hanamaki woke up, they didn’t speak, and when Hanamaki said _It wasn’t your fault_ in the wee hours of the night, Matsukawa pretended to be asleep.

-

When Iwaizumi and Oikawa came back three days later, they greeted Hanamaki and Matsukawa not in an airport—with smiles and hugs and news of their victory in the VB World Championship—but in a hospital room.

Matsukawa stood at the corner of the room as Oikawa and Iwaizumi took a spot on either side of Hanamaki’s bed, whispering, foreheads wrinkled in concern and apprehension. They exchanged soft words, and from the way Oikawa’s face crumpled and Iwaizumi’s hands clenched around the sheets in rage, Matsukawa could already guess that the news had already been delivered.

They brought food with them that they shared but there was no conversation to accompany the clack of plastic forks and wooden chopsticks. Matsukawa felt the blame swimming in the heavy and somber atmosphere in the room. There was nothing he could think of to say that could make this better.

In the end, as always, it was Oikawa that looked up with a soft, reassuring smile, a smile that had lifted their spirits countless times before.

“Let’s go on a trip.”

-

As it turned out, there was nothing preventing Hanamaki from long road trips so long as he had oxygen tanks ready. The doctor gave them clear guidelines on what places are ideal (no extreme temperatures, preferably the countryside where the air was cleaner) and Oikawa quickly prepared a trip to Nagano.

“It’s a five-hour drive, max. Three hours by shinkansen.” he said, flicking through pamphlets of Kamikochi and Takayama he’d spread out on Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s coffee table. Hanamaki smiled from his perch on Matsukawa’s lap, tracing the highlighted path on the map.

“We can’t make noise on the shinkansen though.”

Iwaizumi smiled and tossed the shinkansen schedule to the side. “Drive it is, then.”

-

Matsukawa stepped out of the car with a grateful groan, stretching out his limbs before turning to help Hanamaki out. Once he was standing, Matsukawa followed the line of Hanamaki’s nasal cannula tube with a loose grip, checking if it got jostled in the drive, hitching the bag higher up Hanamaki’s back and just generally looking him over for any sign of discomfort. Hanamaki warded him off with a sharp nudge.

“I’m _fine_ , Issei.” Hanamaki huffed irritably, still a little uncomfortable with Matsukawa’s more insistent babying since the incident. Matsukawa let him go after a final once-over and watched Hanamaki go on ahead, stopping beside Oikawa.

“You alright with a bit of an uphill trek, Makki?” Oikawa asked when Hanamaki looked up at the path leading to the inn. He turned and knelt with his back towards Hanamaki. “I can carry you if you want.”

“No. You’d just drop me.” Hanamaki huffed, ignoring the affronted look. Instead, he turned to Iwaizumi and raised his arms towards him like a toddler, opening and closing his fists. “Iwaizumi!”

Iwaizumi stepped in and hooked his hands under Hanamaki’s knees, effortlessly lifting Hanamaki on his back and leaving Oikawa looking like he’d been abandoned. Matsukawa sympathetically patted him on the head, smiling. He didn’t realize until now how much he’d missed the easy atmosphere that Oikawa and Iwaizumi brought along.

From that point it was only a short walk to a mountainside inn. The glass doors that led to the patio of Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s room displayed a great view of the mountains. By the time they all finished unpacking, the sun was already setting, and Matsukawa walked back into their bedroom to find Hanamaki with a hand pressed against the glass, bathed in the orange-pink glow of the sunset.

He sagged against the wall and watched Hanamaki as the sun went down, the ache in his chest amplifying as the seconds ticked by.

-

“Slow _down_ , Issei.”

“Not what you said last night, Takahiro.” Matsukawa wiggled his eyebrows but slowed down considerably, greeting Hanamaki with an embrace when he caught up.

Hanamaki scoffed and punched him in the arm. “Stop pretending that you got any, asshole.”

“Come on, that was too good to pass up.” He laughed and pressed a kiss to the juncture of Hanamaki’s neck and shoulders. Hanamaki ignored him in favor of admiring the view that their spot provided, the white-dusted mountains and lush greenery picturesque in the afternoon light.

“It’s so beautiful isn’t it?”

Matsukawa didn’t look away from Hanamaki’s face as he answered. “Sure is.”

Hanamaki rolled his eyes at him and pushed at his face when he began to nip at the skin. “Stop that, I’m serious.”

He was about to retort with a _So am I_ but Hanamaki quickly sidestepped away and stepped closer to the edge of the cliff, slipping his nasal tubes down slightly to breathe in the clean mountain breeze. He smiled, satisfied, and Matsukawa moved to join him, just breathing and taking in the sounds all around him.

“Funny how no one ever really appreciates the things that really matter until they’re dying.”

Suddenly, the moment shattered, and all the playfulness drained out of Matsukawa in one fell swoop.

“Can we not have this conversation?” he spat, running a frustrated hand through his hair as he turned away, shoulders hunched.

“No.” Hanamaki’s eyes flashed and he whirled to face him. “Because I’m _dying_ , Issei.” and he gestured to himself, to the tubes stuck up his nose, to the oxygen tank slung over his shoulder, to the body that was slowly betraying him. “I’m dying and I need to know that you’re not—”

 _going to follow me_ was unspoken, but it might as well have been shouted in the silence.

Matsukawa didn’t respond and Hanamaki ducked his head, stepped back just beyond Matsukawa’s peripheral vision. Matsukawa stubbornly stayed staring at the ground and stayed there long after Hanamaki’s footsteps have faded into the forest.

That night, after tolerating a tense dinner and an even tenser climb into bed, Hanamaki’s arm snaked around his middle and he pressed himself up against his back, nudging the space between his shoulder blades with his forehead.

“I love you.” he said. Over and over and _over_ like he wanted to burn the words into Matsukawa’s ears, like Matsukawa could store them away for the years that he might have to face without Hanamaki.

“There’s never going to be anyone else.” he whispered, nearly lost in the torrent of declarations spilling from Hanamaki’s lips. “I would never want anyone else.”

“You don’t know that.” Hanamaki chided gently and Matsukawa closed his eyes in futile denial. “Don’t let my death ruin the rest of your life. I want you to be happy without me.”

He smothered a bitter laugh. He’s happy _because_ he’s with Hanamaki. That’s always been how it was.

Instead of answering, he turned around and pulled Hanamaki tight against him, mindful of the mask he wore to bed. He couldn’t lie to Hanamaki, and telling the truth would only hurt him. Hanamaki’s hands ran gently along the length of his back.

“It’s okay to cry, you know.” he whispered, carefully, as if Matsukawa would shatter with the wrong words.

Matsukawa’s breath hitched in his throat at the temptation. “I’m not the one who’s dying.”

“No.” Hanamaki pulled back and looked him in the eye. “You’re the one who’s being left behind.”

And just like that, Matsukawa crumbled completely. Hanamaki pulled off his mask and kissed him, and he responded quickly, laving his tongue along dried and chapped lips, chasing away the stale oxygen with the taste of his grief and desperation and love.

Hanamaki groaned but it wasn’t pain or discomfort. Matsukawa took in the earthy smell of rosemary and mint that was so characteristic of Hanamaki, clung to Hanamaki like a drowning man, searched for Hanamaki’s familiar warmth and buried himself in it.

That night, he cried for the first time since this all started.

-

Five months in and the donor search still hadn’t yielded any positive results. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had taken blood tests too, but both came up negative. There were no suitable corpses that had familial consent, and when the doctor called him one day, after once again delivering no good news, he advised him to _get his affairs in order, just in case_.

The next day, Hanamaki woke up from a coughing fit that wouldn’t stop. He choked on breaths that his lungs refused to accept, and Matsukawa had driven them both to the hospital with hands that held tight around the steering wheel if only to hide how horribly they shook.

Hanamaki was immediately confined to the ICU. Matsukawa entered and took one look at Hanamaki lying in that bed, illuminated by the greens and reds of monitors that recorded his sluggish heartbeat and breathing, and broke down all over again.

-

He barely slept at all in that tenuous week where Hanamaki’s fits grew longer and more frequent. Some days he could breathe well enough to speak, but even with Matsukawa’s hushing, he still whispered reminders against Matsukawa’s skin, speaking between short, shuddering breaths, voice thinning out the longer he spoke.

“I’m sorry.” he said, once. “I never wanted to hurt you, or my grandma, or Oikawa and Iwaizumi. I never wanted this.”

Matsukawa silenced him with a kiss because the last thing Hanamaki needed to do was to start blaming himself. Since the moment Hanamaki was diagnosed, Matsukawa found himself pointing fingers at a lot of people, at things not even tangible, at _himself_ , but not once did he ever blame Hanamaki.

When he leaned back, Hanamaki stared back at him, as if committing his features to memory. His breathing was still worryingly heavy. Matsukawa hitched the blankets up to his chest, and idly ran a hand along Hanamaki’s too-long fringe, trying to curb his restlessness.

“It’s annoying.” Hanamaki muttered softly, reaching up to cover Matsukawa’s hand with his own. “Should get it cut.”

“I could cut it for you.” Matsukawa offered, taking Hanamaki’s hand and stroking his knuckles with his thumb.

 _It’d be easy._ he thought. _Just cover your head with a bowl and cut straight across._

He wanted to say it too, watch Hanamaki frown and call him a jerk and pout until he’d say something that would make him laugh.

But he _couldn’t_ , because laughing took too much out of Hanamaki. Even a short bout of giggles would cause him to need a stronger oxygen setting, so he stayed silent.

-

In the days leading up to the end, silence was all they had, but one night it was broken by a rasping noise, the only sound that ever seemed to pass Hanamaki’s lips nowadays. He hurried to the bed and Hanamaki was looking straight at him, a sound slipping from his mouth, and Matsukawa realized that it was a voice, _his_ voice, struggling around a word. Matsukawa moved closer, practically lying on the bed too, just to save him the trouble of having to project.

“Issei,” Hanamaki breathed against his ear, so soft that it could’ve easily been mistaken for a sigh. “Mask.”

He complied, gently lifting Hanamaki’s head from the pillow to get the strap off. Hanamaki’s face was lined with red from where the mask dug into his too-pale skin. Hanamaki lifted his hands, moving like he was locked in a bubble of slow motion, and settled them against the sides of Matsukawa’s face, thumbs brushing against his cheeks.

“I was happy.” he whispered, and the words alone shattered the dam keeping Matsukawa’s tears at bay, falling on Hanamaki’s pale cheeks.

“You made me so, _so_ happy.” he continued, and Hanamaki was crying too, tears slipping from the corner of his eyes.

Hanamaki tried to pull him close with too-weak hands but Matsukawa surged forward as if he was pulled by all the forces in the universe. Hanamaki’s lips crashed against his, and they were dry and cold but quickly warmed under his touch. It lasted only a few precious seconds and when he pulled away, Hanamaki whispered what would be his last words against Matsukawa’s lips.

No sooner had the wisps of his last syllable dissipated into the air than the heart monitor gave shrill shriek that drowned out Matsukawa’s sobs.

-

Waking up is like running headfirst into a wall. All his senses come back full force and the sudden onslaught of sensation causes his head to throb.

He takes in a deep breath and is hit with a smell he’s intimately familiar with: the scent of disinfectant and pure oxygen. He wants to open his eyes but his lids feel too heavy.

Hearing comes next. He hears one beep, and that’s all it takes for him to recognize it. Those beeps have serenaded him to sleep, or occupied the empty hours where he couldn’t even get a wink of it.

Finally his eyes slide open and he groans at the flash of white that greets him. He lifts his hand to shield his face and realizes it’s all taped up, an IV needle secure between the strips. He frowns and tries to remember why he’s here, what’s happening.

He looks and sees someone sitting hunched in the chair beside him, elbows on their knees and hands tightly clasped. He feels an odd sense of déjà vu, except instead of reliving a memory, he feels like he’s witnessing it from an outsider’s perspective. It’s confusing and disorienting and he just wants to go back to sleep but something forces him into awareness, an insistent push at the back of his mind.

He blinks several times to clear his vision, but it doesn’t do much. Colors and lights are swimming in front of him and the person gets up and approaches, one hand coming up to smooth his hair back. He _knows_ those hands.

“’kawa,” he rasps, and winces at the dryness of his throat. Oikawa immediately turns to the nightstand when Matsukawa knows a pitcher of water sits, even though he hasn’t seen it. His mind continues to nag at him even as Oikawa gently lifts the oxygen mask off and guides the glass to his lips. He catches sight of the other chair situated beside the one Oikawa was occupying and waits until speaking feels less like throwing up sand before opening his mouth again.

“Iwa?”

“Outside.” Oikawa answers simply. Matsukawa feels his expression twist into something unfamiliar.

“He’s not mad at you.” Oikawa says quickly. “He’s mad at himself. Thinks he should’ve kept the medicine cabinet under lock and key. Thinks he shouldn’t have given you the pills in the first place.”

Oikawa’s voice is calm and steady, the voice of a leader, a friend, but his face is pale and there are shadows under his eyes and Matsukawa is cruelly reminded that this is also the same friend whose kindness he abused, who he lied to and betrayed and is now taking care of him even after everything he’s done.

“I’m sorry.” slips out of him, but it feels all sorts of wrong and insincere and Oikawa shakes his head, looking so _disappointed_ that Matsukawa’s chest constricts.

“You’re sorry we found you in time.”

Matsukawa doesn’t know what to say to that, and he’s spared when a nurse walks in.

-

When Iwaizumi enters the room, much later when Oikawa’s fallen asleep and Matsukawa’s trying to, he sits by the bed and takes his hand. He doesn’t say anything, not when Matsukawa squeezes back, not when he opens his eyes and takes in Iwaizumi’s pinched expression.

He wants to say something, wants that expression gone from Iwaizumi’s face because the last thing he deserves is to suffer for Matsukawa’s stupid mistakes, but Iwaizumi doesn’t wait for his words. His head falls forward on the bed and his forehead rests against the back of his hand. Matsukawa struggles to lift the hand connected to the IV needle and strokes heavy fingers along the messy spikes of Iwaizumi’s hair.

“We know we’re not enough,” Iwaizumi starts and takes a shaky breath to steady his voice. “to make you want to stay.”

Matsukawa opens his mouth, wants to contradict it so badly but what can he say? What can he say when the fact that he’s here makes it clear that what Iwaizumi just said was true?

“And the thing is, I understand,” he continues, “because if I’d lost him, I might pull this shit too.”

Matsukawa glances over to Oikawa’s sleeping form on the hospital room’s beat-up sofa, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest as Iwaizumi speaks.

“But please, _please_ understand,” and Iwaizumi’s begging and it makes Matsukawa’s stomach clench uncomfortably, because Iwaizumi should never have to beg, least of all to him of all people. “that you’re not the only one who was left behind. We miss Hanamaki like fuck and we know it’s not the same but if you thought Oikawa and I will be fine if you died too just because we have each other then I’ll fucking punch you.”

That’s the thing. He _wasn’t_. He wasn’t thinking that at all when he took those pills. He didn’t think of Oikawa or Iwaizumi or how they would react as he lay dying, but himself; how tired he was, how much he hurt, how he just wanted to sleep and forget even just for a little while.

Then he thought of Hanamaki, how badly he wanted to see him again.

Now, he thinks he just wants his best friends to stop hurting.

-

The doctors run tests on him to see if the overdose had any lasting effects. They say he was lucky that they got to him before his heart stopped, that there seemed to be nothing wrong despite him having taken that many, and that his brain seems normal. Some of them are reluctant to send him home immediately, subtly dropping names of psychiatrists and support groups as they read him his test results, left him business cards and contact details for suicide helplines. Matsukawa nods and pockets them even though he thinks he won’t need them.

He waits for the doctor to step out before turning to Oikawa and Iwaizumi, who are preparing for his discharge from the hospital, folding his and their clothes in companionable silence. He looks at them for a few seconds, then at his hands. His jaw works but words don’t pour out like he expected. He closes his eyes and tries again.

“He died with a smile on his face.”

Simultaneously, they pause in their work at look at him, mirroring expressions of confusion on their faces. Matsukawa swallows with some difficulty, and when he continues, his voice is rougher.

“He said a lot of stuff. Kept talking even when he could hardly breathe, most days.”

They slowly approach him and take the seats by his bedside. Oikawa takes his hand and he lets him. 

“He said he never wanted to hurt you guys.” and Oikawa’s breath catches, fingers tightening minutely around his. Iwaizumi’s shaking or maybe it’s him, he’s not sure.

“I miss him.” he says, admits, repeats, and that’s the crux of it. He curls in on himself as the tears come one after the other, curls tighter even when Iwaizumi and Oikawa shoot up to hug him, hold him up like they alone can keep him from breaking. He clings to them like they did to him that last night in his and Hanamaki’s old apartment, and lets their hands and words soothe him, lets himself be forgiven and loved for the first time since Hanamaki died.

-

Hanamaki’s grandmother picked a grave close to the entrance, visible even when Matsukawa’s just barely crossed the threshold of the cemetery, the kanji spelling out his name like a glowing neon sign.

He takes unsure steps. He knows that, years down the line, he’ll be able to make his way towards Hanamaki’s final resting place even with his eyes closed, but this is the first time he’s ever taken these steps, and he wobbles like a newborn fawn. He doesn’t bring flowers, but a box containing a cream puff from Hanamaki’s favorite pastry shop. He kneels down in front of the gray marble and places the gift alongside many other offerings from friends and family.

He sits, tries to make himself comfortable on the stone path. The silence is awkward, and he struggles to find the right words. Even now, Hanamaki renders his tongue stupid and unable to do its job properly.

“I know that wherever you are, you’re mad at me.”

He pauses, tries to imagine how Hanamaki would respond. Then he smiles.

“I know sweets aren’t going to save my ass this time,” he says, and the smile falls from his lips. “but I just wanted to say that I was selfish.”

The wind stills, and without the rustling of leaves his voice almost seems like it’s amplified across the silence.

“I was selfish.” he repeats, in a voice that’s cracked and vulnerable. “Everything I ever did was to hold on to you. You probably wanted to talk to me as much as you can while you still could but I told you to save your breath.”

“And even after everything you said. I tried to kill myself.” He doesn’t even try to deny that that was what he tried to do, even if Oikawa and Iwaizumi make excuses about his state of mind and their self-proclaimed irresponsibility, it was Matsukawa who took those pills and swallowed every last one of them. “I ignored your last wish. Aren’t I just the worst boyfriend?”

His voice hitches at the last word and his hand flies up to press the side of his hand against his mouth, suppressing the sobs that threaten to bubble to the surface.

“Takahiro, you made me so happy too. I was happiest just watching you sleep, seeing you smile, coming home to find you already on the couch watching TV.”

And each memory still burns bright and beautiful in his mind’s eye, as vivid and clear as the day he witnessed it.

“I miss you more than I can say,” he says to the Hanamaki of his memories, to the Hanamaki that’s listening in some corner of the afterlife somewhere, “ _miss_ doesn’t even cover it, but even though you’re not here anymore, I’m not going to stop being happy.”

He thinks of his parents, Oikawa and Iwaizumi, even Hanamaki’s grandmother, who has been sending him invitations to dinner since the funeral.

He thinks of Hanamaki’s last words.

“I love you, Takahiro.” he whispers, so softly, because those words have only ever belonged to one person. “I’ll see you again, when it’s my time.”

He leans his head against the marble and it’s so, so cold, nothing like Hanamaki.

But the wind picks up and it’s a gentle force against his side, and beyond the smell of incense and flowers, he thinks he can smell mint and rosemary.

He closes his eyes and allows himself to cry for Hanamaki, one last time.

-

“Ready to go home?” Oikawa says, just as he leans back from the tombstone. He looks up and nods. Oikawa and Iwaizumi both reach out a hand, and Matsukawa takes them.

Their hands are warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I think it was only a matter of time before my penchant for angst spilled over to this fandom too. HAHA. Sorry guys :(
> 
> Title is from Hallellujah ver. Peter Hollens and Jackie Evancho
> 
> PS: I took some liberties with IPF. It's the same thing a family member died of, but I wasn't really present for most of the diagnosis or maintenance, so I could only get some snippets of the actual process/progression of the disease. (That, and some research)
> 
> PSS: In the process of writing this I stumbled across The Fault In Our Stars so some parts may have been inspired by it.


End file.
